The Black Raven - Katharine Kerr [1]
“He does know his name,” Marka said. “He may not have any other words, but he does know his name.”
Keeta sighed and sat down next to the boy, who ignored her. They made an odd pair, Keeta so massive and dark, Zandro so slender and pale. Even though she had taken over the business end of managing their travelling show, Keeta still juggled, and her long arms sported muscles many a man had envied over the years. In her curly black hair, which she wore cropped close to her skull, grey sprouted at the temples.
“I’ve been afraid for months,” Marka said at last. “He still can’t use a spoon.”
“Is it that he can’t use one?” Keeta held out her hand to Zandro. “Or that he simply won’t?”
Zandro whipped his head around and bit her on the thumb. Calmly, without speaking, Keeta put her other hand under his chin, spread her fingers and thumb, and pressed on both points of his jaw. With a squeal he opened his mouth and let her go.
“That’s better,” Keeta said to him. “No biting.”
His head tilted to one side, he considered her. She pointed to the teeth marks on her thumb.
“No! No biting!”
All at once he smiled and nodded.
“Very good,” Keeta said. “You understood me.”
This he ignored; with a yawn he returned to his study of the edge between light and shadow.
“Ah ye gods!” Marka said. “Just when I think it’s hopeless, he’ll do something like that. Understand a word, I mean, or even do something kind. When Kivva fell and cut herself yesterday? He came running and kissed her and tried to help.”
“I saw that, yes. At times he’s really very sweet.”
Marka nodded. In the twenty years since her marriage, she’d borne nine pregnancies, not counting the miscarriages. Six of the children had lived past infancy-Kwinto, their firstborn son; Tillya, the eldest daughter; Terrenz, born so soon after Tillya that they loved each other like twins; their sisters Kivva and Delya, named after Keeta’s longtime companion, who had died in the same fever that had killed another infant son. Zandro would, she hoped, be the last. She wondered how she was going to find the love and strength to deal with him, who would demand more of both than all the rest of them put together. Keeta must have been thinking along the same lines.
“It’s not like you don’t have enough troubles on your mind already. What with Ebañy’s”-a long pause-“illness.”
“Oh, come right out and say it!” Marka snapped. “He’s gone mad. We all know it. And now his youngest son is obviously mad, too. Why are we all being so coy?
How would Ebañy put it? He’s demented, lunatic, deranged, insane-” Tears overwhelmed her.
Marka was aware of Keeta getting up, then kneeling again next to her. She turned into her friend’s embrace and sobbed. Keeta stroked her hair with a huge hand.
“There, there, little one. We’ll find a way to heal your husband yet. We’ll be playing in Myleton next. They have physicians and priests and the gods only know who else, and one of them will know what to do.”
“Do you think so?” Marka raised a tear-stained face. “Do you really think so?”
“I have to. And so do you.”
The tears stopped. Marka sat back on her heels and wiped her face on the sleeve of her tunic. A sudden thought turned her cold.
“Wait—where is Ebañy?” Marka scrambled to her feet. “Here we are, on the coast, with the cliffs—”
“I’ll stay here with the child.”
Marka ducked out of the tent, then stood blinking for a moment in the bright sunlight. Around her the camp spread out, a grand thing of white tents and painted wagons, the biggest travelling show that Bardek had ever seen. At the moment, however, the camp seemed curiously empty. Most of the performers had retired to their tents to sleep away the noon heat. Since she could see none of their animals, some of the men must have led them to the water trough by the public fountain, hidden from her sight by trees. Nowhere did Marka find Ebañy, but in the far view, at the edge of the caravanserai, between the palms and the plane trees, she could see the cliffs and distantly hear the sea pounding on